


About words

by Zimraphel



Series: An anti-Athrabeth [2]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Athrabeth Finrod ah Andreth, F/M, Finrod is... well-intentioned, it's not enough., sometimes when andreth says 'my lord' she means 'you bitch!'
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:16:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27902851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zimraphel/pseuds/Zimraphel
Summary: Your brother would have me believe it was your noble spirit that made you turn away from me. Yet I would not be so easily convinced, talk of the One be damned.Andreth speaks her mind. About Finrod, about words. About Aegnor, about fear.Song against ink, voice against fire.-(Originally posted to the SWG as Aerlinn in 2011, now uploaded to my AO3 account)
Relationships: Aegnor | Ambaráto/Andreth | Saelind
Series: An anti-Athrabeth [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2042980
Comments: 9
Kudos: 16





	About words

**Author's Note:**

> Andreth would not leave me alone until she spoke her mind: and so she did. 
> 
> I doubt she really cannot write, she probably just doesn't want those stories, her people's stories, written down. It was, after all, an oral tradition. If this appears a tad one-sided and coloured, that is because it is. Just like the Athrabeth.

_“Beauty is unbearable, drives us to despair, offering us for a minute the glimpse of an eternity that we should like to stretch out over the whole of time.”_ ( Albert Camus)

Your brother would have me believe it was your noble spirit that made you turn away from me. Yet I would not be so easily convinced, talk of the One be damned.

Even as we talked I realized the first thing he would do when he left was write this down. Lord Finrod has always cast himself in the role of benevolent instructor, even if we, the sun-children, did not ask for it. I could not, would not write. He has often tried to convince me to learn, but I would not bend. The tradition of the Edain is a spoken one, a sung one. In the dark, we gathered around campfires and sang stories about our love, our hate, our past, our future. That has always been the way. I am the most knowledgeable story-keeper now, and I know I cannot trust the treacherous pen to preserve the intonation and intent of a living voice. In time, I will pass on my knowledge to a new woman. Our story-keepers are always women, for we preserve the sacred fire in the middle of the camp, and pour words into our newborn babes. 

Lord Finrod does not understand.

"But what if you forget?" 

"You cannot pass on history accurately without mistakes. It will change into something wholly recognizable, the true tale lost to all of the Edain for ever!"

There is no true tale, Lord Finrod, and your pen has proven this once again. I have read your Athrabeth; it is not how I remember that particular conversation. It is a one-sided recording, stripped of living voices. Then again, how could I blame you? There are those of us who call you, for all your might, for all your beauty, the Embalmers. For the natural changes in this new world, our world, fill you with sadness and disgust. Do not try to disguise it, my lord. I have seen you flinch at your old friends, young and fresh less than a yen ago, and if you or your kin gift us with living things, they always live unnaturally long, oftentimes longer than their owners. I found flowers unwilting in the house of Adanel when we had to empty it before the burning, and I remembered seeing them there in my childhood. You do not understand that the story needs to change to go on, and so we are both stuck in a memory, your brother and I. 

I do not bear you ill will, my lord. In fact I enjoy your company, even if I do not always want it. I find it strange that an immortal Elf-lord would want our stories, but I find myself sharing them nevertheless. I know you will pin them down, strange them with your ink. But you do not understand why that is a bad thing, and I cannot blame you. After all, you are forever. It is only natural you want everything else to be too. 

You tell me to accept whatever the One has in store for me and your brother, but do not seem to gauge the contradiction in your words. The Song has gone on, the fire is dulled to embers. If there ever was anything in store for us, it has passed already. An Elda he was indeed; he did not grasp what lay to his hand, and now that what lay within his grasp does no longer exist. I am no longer an impassioned, inexperienced maiden full of reverence and hero-worship. There is the first touch of frost in my hair, not stars, and I doubt he would even notice me now, did he not know me already. Of course, he does know me, which is why he never comes here anymore. My father still thinks he somehow insulted his lordship, and worries about the long-suffering grudges Noldorin lords are rumored to bear. Your presence here, at least, comforts him: sometimes I wonder if that is part of the reason why you continue to visit me. Somehow I don't think that is all there is to it, though. There is an unveiled curiosity in your eyes, and sometimes I wonder if it is for me or my stories. You never did understand your brother's infatuation with me, and if anything, you always want to understand. But perhaps I am just flattering myself in my old age. For all your thoughtfulness, your kind is unpredictable and hard to read to us secondborn. 

In the end, I almost agreed with him. I found my head nodding despite my cynicism, or embitterment, as he would call it. Yes, maybe I will meet Aikanáro again beyond the world. Yes. I cannot deny I long for it, for all my weariness. I am, after all, human. _Amdir,_ as you call it, comes naturally to us, as it must for our survival. 

But I know the Song has gone on: and I do not believe it was the knowledge of his own death that stopped him. It was, after all, quite obvious that I would not live very long no matter what happened: his own foreseen death could have somewhat softened the blow of mine. Or, had I lived that long, ended his disgust and fear of my aging, though you would not let me consider that aloud.

My lord, you have a kind heart. I understand your need to comfort: and maybe also the strange benediction of your own leaving of love through the justification of my story. But Amarië still dwells in Valinor, unchanged (that is, to your knowledge, to the extent of what you can bear thinking about) whereas I am only unchanged in your brother's memories. Maybe it is true that tradition and duty convinced him to leave me behind: but to believe that to be the end of it would be a foolish conviction. You wonder why I am so convinced of your brother's fear of my old age, perhaps because you are so busy trying not to be frightened by it yourself. I will tell you why: because I sometimes still slip into his dreams, when he forgets to guard his mind. And it was not unbearable pity I saw there, or concern about my shame.

Oh, don't look so surprised. Did you honestly expect a sun-maiden to give up the warmth of men without good reason? I, who argued for having, at the very least, a one day if not a lifetime? But he would not have me, in the end: never wholly. Only when the stars caught in my hair, the light was just right, and he could believe I would live forever for just one moment. 

I wonder how I will be remembered by you to whom memories are so important. No doubt my name will be captured between the pages of some dusty tome, a short sidenote in the appendix, maybe even merit a short story or a sad, grave song about the fate sundering the prince and his unlucky _adaneth_. No doubt it will not say anything how we really lived through any of it, for the Eldar have about as much talent for living in the moment as your ink has for capturing the living song. 

_For one year, for one day of the flame..._

In the end, I left the flowers beside Adanel's bed, though we took the bed with us. They were hard years, and we had neither the time nor resources to create new furniture for our new homes, though the thought of sleeping in a deathbed struck fear into us. The flowers, however, burned with her. Was I bitter after all?

Perhaps I was. Perhaps there is some sort of inquietude beneath our admiration after all, for none of the other women tried to take them outside, though I saw them glance in their direction several times.

_For one year, for one day..._

But those days are long past: and you did not grasp what lay within your reach. 

And the Song goes on, sorrowless. 

**Author's Note:**

> The last line, is, of course, a rather mean reference to the song of Beren and Luthien: "And yet at last they met once more, and long ago they passed away. In the forest singing sorrowless." I could not refrain from that little sarcastic moment.


End file.
